Your loving uncle,
Horatio
P.S. Your first clue lies in the Japanese puzzle box on the desk.
Rhys slammed the letter onto the blotter, rattling the items on the desk. To come soclose…only to have his uncle leave him high and dry yet again. To turn his life-or-death situation into a damned game.
Did you expect someone to actually take your corner?His inner voice sneered.If you’ve learned anything, it’s this: the only one you can depend upon is yourself.
God knew that was no consolation. He’d let himself down more times than he cared to count.
He curled and uncurled his fingers before snatching up the puzzle box. Grimly, he studied the smooth, lacquered sides: no visible keyhole or opening. For an instant, he was tempted to smash open the blasted thing…but a memory stopped him.
When it had come time for Rhys to leave that summer, Horatio had handed him a puzzle box just like this one. “To entertain you on your journey back to Northumberland, nephew.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Rhys had whispered.
Secrets and shame had festered inside him, yet he hadn’t known how to release them. How to purge the fear that had made his insides churn and his hands clammy.
Swallowing, he’d begged, “Let me stay with you, Uncle,please. I shan’t be any trouble. I’ll go on expeditions with you, be your apprentice—”
“You must do as your father says.” Horatio had ruffled his hair. “The sole heir to a duke can’t go gallivanting about. That’s the prerogative of younger sons.”
“I don’t want to be the heir!”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter.”
The heretofore unknown firmness in Horatio’s tone unearthed feelings Rhys had long buried.
“You don’t want me. You’re no different from the duke. I hate you both!” He’d shouted the words and thrown the puzzle box with all his might. It had bounced along the gravel drive, the sound of something delicate smashing inside.
“Have a care, lad,” Horatio had said quietly. “Puzzle boxes cannot be solved by force. To do so will only destroy what is within.”
The memory fading, Rhys stared at the object he currently held. A hammer was out of the question: the clue inside was likely fragile, easily destroyed if not accessed through the intended means. Swearing under his breath, he examined all sides of the box. He found near-seamless panels, four on each side. In order to open the blasted thing, he would have to slide those panels open in a specific sequence…out of over a thousand possible combinations.
Solve the puzzle box—or find an heiress to marry. Those are my goddamned choices.
With a frustrated growl, he tossed back the rest of his brandy and got to work.
2
“Blooming hell.”
As soon as the words left her lips, Maggie Foley regretted them. The sound echoed off the cabinets crammed with fossils and old bones, but luckily there was no one to hear her. Unluckily, this was because Foley’s Emporium of Natural Wonders was devoid of patrons, an all-too-common state of late. Even so, she knew better than to give into a bad habit.
A lady does not curse, no matter the circumstances,her late husband’s voice chided her gently.
It made Maggie feel even worse. She owed everything to Paul Foley. He had given her and her daughter Gloriana his name, a comfortable life, and the greatest gift of all: respectability.
Her marriage had been one of platonic respect. A meeting of the minds rather than the flesh. That was the way Paul had wanted it, and she’d been so grateful to him that she would have accepted any terms. With his help, she’d transformed from a frowsy bar maid to a reputable matron.
Yet here she was, letting him down. Not just with the unladylike swearing.
“Is something amiss, Maggie?” Paul’s sister, Hypatia Foley, stuck her head out from the green curtain that separated the backroom from the rest of the shop.
A handsome spinster in her early forties, Hypatia had come to live with Maggie and Paul five years ago, after completing her last post as a governess. She and Maggie had become fast friends. Patty shared her brother’s slender frame and narrow face. Whereas Paul’s gaze had been light blue and dreamy, hers was navy and shrewd behind her small gold spectacles. Silver was beginning to thread the chestnut curls beneath her frilled cap, and she had the no-nonsense air of a life-long bluestocking.
Before answering her sister-in-law, Maggie counted to ten. It was a trick Paul had taught her to curb what he called her “impulsive nature.” Along with elocution and etiquette lessons, he’d instructed her on how to tame the Goode recklessness that ran in her blood…the wicked urges that had nearly led to her downfall.
